


Losing Control

by RubyBelle



Category: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, Bad BDSM Etiquette, Breathplay, Coercion, Drunk Sex, Extremely Dubious Consent, M/M, Undernegotiated Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-08
Updated: 2020-01-08
Packaged: 2021-02-19 00:40:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,743
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22169104
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RubyBelle/pseuds/RubyBelle
Summary: [UNFINISHED WORK, WILL NEVER BE COMPLETED]The only way good ole' Uncle Obie can get Tony Stark to behave is to force him to see how much better it is to submit.
Relationships: Obadiah Stane/Tony Stark
Comments: 1
Kudos: 30





	Losing Control

**Author's Note:**

> keepin my unpopular ship streak alive with more bad doms
> 
> would u believe me if i told u i started writing this in 2018? i took a lil break, came back, and decided it was still pretty good. but, seeing as i don't rlly give two shits about MCU anymore, i just decided to throw it up here as an eternally incomplete work.
> 
> left the unfinished outline bits in, they’re formatted differently than the rest, you'll know 'em when you see 'em.

Ever since Tony Stark had seemingly been resurrected from the depths of whatever alcoholic binge hell he'd disappeared to after his parent's deaths and subsequent college graduation, Obadiah Stane's life has only gotten more complicated. Some of these side effects are obvious — the company has to shift around to make room for the rightful heir, both in name and skill — but some of the more interesting and frustrating developments have very little to do with paperwork.

Obadiah's known Tony since before the elder Starks passed away, knows him well from countless business meetings convened over the family dining table, knows well his large dark inquisitive eyes, ever unchanging. He'd played with him as a boy, hadn't he? Once or twice, perhaps; a precocious Tony reading novels meant for kids twice his age sitting in Howard's waiting room. Obadiah would ask friendly questions about the book or school, and Tony would answer, but never more. The brat had always been cautious around good ole' Uncle Obie, an unfounded cocky self-satisfaction clashing with natural childlike intimidation. Obadiah never particularly hated Tony then, but he always relaxed better once he was out of the room.

But now Tony's back, and he's older — old enough to drink, which coincidentally happens to be his favourite pastime, it seems.

The first week of victory bottles of champagne, welcoming rounds of shots, and "for old times sake" beers turns into two weeks, three, nearing a month. Rumours swirl until they solidify into facts, irrefutable proof that Tony Stark is sleeping with any size 6 or below he can get his hands on. Assistants clamor in Obadiah's ears, begging him to get the Prodigal Son back to work, to continue to prove his place at the top of the company. The party boy has to take a back seat for at least a  _ little _ bit of R&D, a new product, a more efficient fuel. Money can only be spent after a payday, sex should wait until after bloodshed.

Obadiah watches this rise with disdain, flipping through channels upon channels of news stations, gossip programs, daytime fodder for stay-at-homes, all of them endlessly discussing the enigma of the most interesting topic of the month, perhaps year: Tony Stark, billionaire, genius, womanizer. A heavy whiskey glass disrupts the program, and as Obadiah calls in a maid to clean up the shattered wreckage of his flat screen, he pulls out his cell phone to message Tony a proposition to meet.

Tony is unstable. That much is blindingly obvious, but as long as Tony  _ knows _ he's unstable, Obadiah won't be able to take advantage. There’s a method to his madness, this is just a peculiarity of geniuses — Tony can hand wave away any complaints he gets each time he manages to successfully develop something previously thought impossible.

The next morning (rather, afternoon, since he's loathe to appear in the office before 2 PM), Tony's nursing a swollen cheek, sunglasses failing to hide the dark circles under his eyes.

"Rough night?" Obadiah asks, a neutral formality, a bland kindness.

"Don't even remember who did this," Tony says, leaning over to grab a block of ice from the bucket on the edge of his desk. "Was it the blonde from Station 12? Or — no,  _ she _ was last week. Mean left hook, whoever it was. Definitely trained in self defense."

Obadiah knows his smile doesn't betray the surge of anger he feels as he watches Tony put the ice cube in his mouth and swirl it around, foggy mind still trying to remember which girl he'd left high and dry this morning. At least Tony has  _ that _ , the mild sociopathy required to succeed. You can't care about the consequences of your actions when you make your money in iron, soaked in blood, due after death. 

Well, Obadiah thinks, it isn't exactly a trait he has  _ naturally _ . Regardless, whether or not he's merely keeping people at an arm's length for some miserable personal reason or if he genuinely doesn't care about what happens to others, it's at least promising.

"What did you want from me?" Tony finally asks, his words a bit muffled by the ice in his mouth. "Why did I come in today?"

Obadiah adjusts his position, seated on the arm of the plush leather couch in Tony's office. "I wanted to talk to you, Tony, man to man. Things have been pretty wild recently."

"Oh, don't  _ you _ start, too, Obie," Tony groans, head rolling back to hit the rest of his seat, biting down on the ice in his mouth, crunching it into smaller, more manageable pieces. "Look, I thought you were cool. I get my part done, don't I? I should be — " he grunts now, sitting up to make eye contact with Obadiah, sadly too weary to put any real power behind whatever emotion he tries to display. "I should be some allowed some free time!"

"It's not that, Tony," Obadiah says, raising his hands out, an attempt at a soothing gesture. "I'm not trying to stop you from having fun. I actually wanted to invite you over for drinks tonight, just so we can... Talk about everything."

A pointed finger whips out. "You're being vague," Tony accuses. "I don't like it when you're vague."

"How about a home field advantage," Obadiah offers. It's best to keep Tony appeased as long as he can, lessen any suspicion or doubts. "I'll head to your place around eight, sounds good?"

Tony's gaze doesn't move, not even a flicker. 

Obadiah keeps his face still, thinking about how he'd love to take the smouldering end of a cigar to those eyes.

Finally, Tony looks away, still exhausted, slumping in his chair. "Sure thing," he says, raising a hand to touch the still-swollen cheek. "Don't go forgetting, now."

"When have I ever missed a meeting with you, Tony?" Obadiah asks, not missing the way Tony's fingers curled into his own skin, taking note of the way Tony's shoulders seemed to tense. "Give you my word, kid. Eight on the dot."

As Obadiah leaves the office, he can hear Tony call out, "You said  _ around _ eight! Don't blame me if I'm not ready!"

Of course Obadiah had told him a more ambiguous time — it was entirely intentional, afterall. A promise with uncertainty, a promise that couldn't be relied on, empty comforts, a precarious ledge to rest your hopes. Before donning his expensive silk suits and controlling a boardroom, Tony had already been shaken, on unsteady ground. 

Obadiah hadn't seen him cry at his parents' funerals, hadn't seen those big brown eyes get misty, or whatever other poetic term people loved to use. Tony had been reticent the entire time, too young to have been expected to get through it alone, but determined all the same.

The company had fallen into Obadiah's lap without much fuss after Howard's passing, because of course it would. It was before Tony disappeared, using his inheritance to what Obadiah had hoped would be drinking himself straight into a grave somewhere in Europe. Tony was cleaning out his father's desk, and Obadiah made sure they were the only ones on the floor.

"Would've done it myself, but," Obadiah had said, walking up behind Tony, who had been so thin. "Thought it would've done you good to do it alone."

"If I'm alone, then why are you here?" Tony asked, pausing his motions, but not turning to look. "Kinda defeats the purpose, doesn't it?"

"Well, it's not good to  _ always _ be alone, Tony," Obadiah replied, coming to a stop next to him. He looked at the box of mundane supplies, planners, things left behind, things not worth bringing along.

When Tony didn't reply, Obadiah took in a deep breath and raised an arm, wrapping it around the boy's shoulders, who didn't fight against the touch at all. Rather, he seemed to relax into it, as if the heat and weight of another person acted as a salve for some invisible pain Tony carried. Obadiah wondered who the last person to touch Tony had been — he hadn't seen a single person offer him so much as a hug throughout all the proceedings, nor had he seen Tony ask for one. 

If Obadiah was the first one to break that barrier of physical contact, it would indeed be useful, he thought.

"Thanks,  _ Uncle Obie _ ," Tony snorted, still not looking up. Obadiah felt that if Tony had, maybe he finally would have seen the boy cry. "Right? That's what dad always wanted me to call you."

Obadiah watched Tony, feeling his jaw tense as he moved it around slowly, a grinding motion. "Yeah," he said, knowing he sounded sad, rubbing Tony's shoulder with the arm still wrapped around him. He was so thin, so small in his grasp. "I still am, if you want me to, kid."

"I think I'm good," Tony had said, and that was it.

That moment stands out vividly in Obadiah's mind, a reminder of how fragile Tony was —  _ is _ . Nothing had changed in those following years, in the half a decade it took Tony to step up and accept responsibility. Obadiah knows this because he's always testing it. Always laying down to be Tony's support, always letting go to see that stupid look on his face, that panic that could only come from the deep fear of being left alone again. 

But, like a gentleman, Obadiah always grabs ahold of him again at the last second, because he doesn’t want Tony to fall just yet.

Obadiah times his entrance to the opulent Stark mansion nothing less than perfectly, arriving at exactly 8:15 PM. Tony's home security AI lets him through after a quick scan, his bizarre pet project becoming more natural and familiar every time Obadiah comes through, which only serves to give him goosebumps. Just how advanced would Tony let that thing become, how talented was Tony that it quickly felt like a person was in the same room as him, when it was only an automated voice, ran through hundreds of processors? Obadiah shudders, unable to imagine the heights Tony could bring the Stark name to, if only he was able to properly direct his energy.

Tony is sitting on his couch, a cup of amber liquid in his hand, resting on his thigh. Obadiah greets him as he takes off his blazer and loosens his tie, but Tony doesn't look his way.

"You're late, so I got started without you," he calls out, switching the channel on the television to — something, Tony doesn't seem to care, so Obadiah doesn't either.

"I  _ did _ say 'around' eight, Tony," Obadiah says, pouring himself a drink at the impeccably stocked bar.

"No, you said ' _ eight on the dot  _ ', Obie," Tony sniffs, a sarcastic smile on his face as he mimics Obadiah's voice. "Whatever. What did you want to talk to me about?"

Finally, Tony turns to look at Obadiah, and Obadiah studies him. He was so vulnerable like this, in sweats and a tank top, none of the protection of a bodyguard, none of the confidence of a suit. Just Tony, barefoot in his living room, getting drunk alone, depending on Obadiah to make this scene just a little less sad.

Ignoring the heat that thought gave him, as he ignores all his flashes of emotions when it comes to Tony, Obadiah sits next to him, his own glass in hand. "How're you hangin' in there?"

Tony doesn't move, save for the narrowing of his brows, suspicion tinting his look. He sighs out a groan, still so immature, and crosses his legs, jiggling them angrily. "What the fuck, Obie, you're really calling me out here so you can ask me how I'm  _ doing _ ? I thought this was serious."

"Tony, this  _ is _ serious," Obadiah says, keeping track of how much whiskey Tony downs when he tips the glass back, some nebulous idea beginning to take form in his mind. "Look, I've got half the board telling me to keep you in check, and the other half is telling me to kick you out. You've gotta start — I dunno,  _ behaving _ ?"

"Fire them," Tony says simply, then he finishes his glass. "If they want me gone, I want them gone. Easy."

Obadiah sets his cup down on the short glass table before them, and takes Tony's empty cup out of his hand. "Calm down," he sighs, getting up to head to the bar. "Nobody's doing anything, so just relax."

"I am calm!" Tony yells after him, and when Obadiah returns with the entire bottle of whiskey, he adds, "What, you planning for a party?"

"I just want it to be us tonight, Tony, no bullshit," Obadiah reassures, pouring them a new glass, the ownership already lost, muddled together. The glass left on the table was in Tony's hand already. "We haven't really had a chance to talk since you came back, y'know?"

Tony looks at the glass in his possession and back at Obadiah, clearly mulling it over, although Obadiah wasn't entirely sure what 'it' was. Whatever the conflict is, alcohol seems to win the battle, and Tony sips at the liquor in front of him, his long eyelashes hiding his downward gaze. "So, talk."

Aside from sociopathic tendencies, another vital skill for the successful ironmonger was bullshitting, but in a way that no one knew you were doing so. Small talk to get Tony comfortable with Obadiah's informal presence, followed by more glasses of whiskey filled, never letting Tony's cup empty. When Tony smiles, Obadiah smiles back. He lights cigars for the both of them, a gift Tony is unable to properly appreciate in his insobriety. Conversation moves to more technical things, to the projects Tony's working on, topics Obadiah has to pretend he understands entirely. More whiskey, until the bottle is finished, and Tony himself makes the trip to the bar, to find something else for them to enjoy.

When Tony sits back down on the couch, it's closer to Obadiah, something that doesn't slip his attention. Tony's drunk, which Obadiah had done everything to make sure of, but the downside of getting a drinking mate wasted was inevitably getting at least tipsy yourself. Obadiah himself isn’t what he would consider drunk, but certainly was far from sober.

A flush tints the skin of Tony's cheeks, his movements sloppy and staggered, accidentally knocking over the remote control when he goes to turn off the television, the background noise long forgotten. Obadiah chuckles, enjoying  _ this _ Tony; not the conceited sober Tony, not the high rolling drunk Tony in the center of a club, but the Tony who seems to grow pinker at Obadiah's laughter.

"Like you've — " Tony hiccups, leaving the remote on the floor, apparently too far gone to realize he can control his entire house by voice. "Like you've never gotten drunk, Obie."

"I'm sure you've  _ seen _ me drunk before, Tony," Obadiah replies, unsure of if that was a lie. He tries to hide another chuckle with a drag from his cigar, not aiming to annoy Tony.

"Doubt it," Tony slurs out, slowly swaying his way back upright, then collapsing against the couch. He'd moved closer as they drank (or maybe Obadiah had moved closer), so now his shoulder was pressed against Obadiah, who had slung his arm across the back of the couch. "Y'never really drink at th' bars… And dad definitely never let you drink in fron'na me."

What was it about that sentence that made Tony seem so very small to Obadiah?

He remembers that night in Howard's old office, he remembers Tony's thin shoulders. Just a boy, then — now, a man.

Obadiah slips his hand off the back of the couch and rests it on Tony's shoulder, as if to bring him in for a side hug. "You're right, Howard was always careful to not let you get into the liquor cabinet."

Again, just like before, Tony relaxes into the touch, the tension in his shoulders dissipating.

  
  
  


> he gets tony drunker and drunker, until tony is totally pliant. obie gets in close and tries to act fatherly, but tony gets handsy. oh, obie realizes that tony is very sloppily making a move on him. obie doesnt particularly think tony's  _ attracted _ to him, he's probably just misaligning sex with romance or passion or even kindness, but he knows that this is something he can definitely take advantage of. obie asks if tony's ever slept with a guy.

  
  
  


"Once or twice," Tony says, failing to feign a lightness and nonchalance. "Maybe closer to a dozen. 'Dunno."

The white hot hand in Obadiah's guts twists, and he can feel the boiling heat spread up his lungs.

"Anyone who'll — " Tony starts, pausing to close his eyes, as if to steady himself. "Who'll make me feel good, right? Tha'sall… that matters." Tony's eyes snap open and even through the bleariness, Obadiah can see the panic rising, the drunken realization of having said too much, of embarrassing oneself when all inhibitions were lowered. 

"I'm sorry, Obie, I didn't mean — Y'know what," Tony says, his arms shaking as he tries to push himself off of Obadiah, his eyes looking away as they lose focus. Retreating. "This was a big mistake."

But Tony isn't stronger than Obadiah on even a good day, so when Obadiah wraps his hand around Tony's wrist and holds him in place, Tony doesn't have a choice but to obey. He chews on his lower lip, keeping his face hidden by looking away. Obadiah watches his body react, watches it shake, heaving with the effort of trying to breathe calmly, still unable to believe how wonderful an opening he'd been given.

"Not a mistake," Obadiah says, and maybe he would've been surprised by how much force he'd put behind those words if he wasn't busy watching every twitch on Tony's face, every shift of muscle under his skin. "Pain's nothing to be scared of."

His free hand — large, heavy with adornments,  _ powerful _ — wraps itself around Tony's neck, his thumb and forefinger pressing against either side of Tony's jaw. So easy, Obadiah realizes, it's so easy to do this. So easy to be bigger than Tony, so easy to grab ahold of him, so easy to dominate.

Tony's body reacts before his mind does, his neck swelling and shrinking under Obadiah's palm; swallowing hard from fear, perhaps. Tony's face remains bewildered, delayed processing speed clear as day. Obadiah lets go of Tony's wrist to bring his other hand up to his neck, both thumbs meeting on his adam's apple. Tony’s big eyes look down, but he doesn't tilt his head to follow. 

Strange, is he scared? Obadiah can't care less.

"I can show you," he says, moving forward now, pushing Tony down onto his back, legs bent oddly underneath him. Obadiah covers him entirely, until Tony's completely in the shadow of his body, hands still out by his side, not yet fighting back. "I know how to make pain feel good."

Obadiah's thumbs press down, and Tony sucks in air instinctively, a sharp breath through trembling lips. His pulse is  _ right there _ , Obadiah can  _ feel _ it. Blood rushing right under the surface of his skin, so warm, so incredibly human, so incredibly fragile.

Tony's mind is still trying to catch up with the series of events, and his hands finally find the strength to reach up and nervously grip Obadiah's wrists, whose grip is still firm on Tony's neck. 

Obadiah remembers something — something about safe words or whatever else those overpriced hookers always wanted, the ones he called when nicotine and alcohol weren't enough to release stress, when he needed something more visceral. Of course there's a right way and a wrong way to do these things, but he frankly doesn't care if Tony only experiences the wrong way. All Obadiah needs is control, and something as stupid as  _ safe words _ or  _ non-verbal signals _ were the opposite of that. All he needs is control — and Tony’s dependence.

"Is this — ?" Tony starts, his voice so weak, so breathless, as if Obadiah was already clamping down. Tony's hands are shaking on Obadiah's wrists, a reinforcement of the fear already in his eyes. "I don't — I don't do any of that hard stuff."

A protest. Obadiah loosens his grip, enough to be mistaken for a caress. Tony keeps talking after drawing in what he probably hopes is a calming breath. "I still gotta be seen in public. Can't have...  _ bruises _ ."

"Don't worry, Tony," Obadiah reassures, the voice and face almost muscle memory at this point. If it was to calm Tony down, he could do this in his sleep. "I'll make sure your pretty little face doesn't get hurt."

As if hearing his name were the snap he needed, Tony suddenly begins to shake, his face crumpling little by little. Whatever weight the whiskey had been holding up was falling on him now, and Tony tilts his head back (revealing more of his neck, more of his skin, more of his pulse), staring ahead to the ceiling. Obadiah watches him rapturously, every new expression feeding the heat in his stomach, and sees the tears in Tony's eyes begin to well up. He grits his teeth, fighting to keep his hands soft.

"This is weird," Tony whispers. “I made this weird.”

Obadiah is not one to worry, but he wonders if he moved too far too fast. The liquor, the atmosphere, the heat — everything had made him complacent, sloppy, hasty. He'd only meant to get Tony to lean on him entirely, meant to exploit only a little, but those damn  _ eyes _ . Tony's eyes are wet, they're teary, they're on the verge of crying, something Obadiah has  _ never _ seen. 

He wants to get him closer.

He wants to push him off the ledge and not grab ahold again.

He wants to see Tony Stark cry.

"We can stop whenever, Tony," Obadiah says, and he doesn't restrict the way his voice envelopes Tony's name, sickly sweet. "This is for  _ you _ , after all." When Tony doesn't react, Obadiah adds, "You wanted me, right? Your hands couldn't stop touching me.

Tony squeezes his eyes shut, pulling his brows together and grimacing, as if in pain. "I didn't mean..." he says, trailing off. His hands tighten on Obadiah's wrists, giving him leverage to shift underneath him, his hips pushing down and away from the larger man.

Obadiah doesn't give him room, makes his struggle in vain. He catches Tony with his knee, meaning only to keep him still, but when he presses into the seat of his loose sweatpants, he can feel Tony's stiffening dick. The contact elicits a small gasp from Tony, a hitch in his breath, dragging all of Obadiah's attention back up to his face, so red and exposed. Obadiah's grin is impossible to stop. He's won.

"I'm just helping you, Tony," Obadiah repeats, knowing Tony's name only makes him more defenseless, only reminds him more and more of the gravity of what they're doing. "You can tell me to stop whenever you want. All I have," he says, tightening his grip just a little, although he isn't entirely sure of why. "is your best interests in mind."

Obadiah isn't sure of which way Tony would sway, if Tony would let him do as he pleased, if he would need to use force, emotional or otherwise. He doesn't need to think ahead to his next step or the step after that, however; with a unsteady inhale, Tony lets go of Obadiah's hands and closes his eyes.

Permission granted, Obadiah presses down slowly on Tony's neck, testing the waters. He can feel the carotid arteries under his fingers, feel his rapid pulse, as if begging for mercy. All Obadiah wants is to wring his neck, press the entirety of his weight down onto Tony until his spine snaps and his windpipe caves in, and being this close is nearly torture. Like a parched man in the ocean, the saltwater a curse rather than salvation, Tony's submissiveness is nearly too much.

But he refrains, and just presses his fingers deep into Tony's neck, against the bulging veins, and watches in heated wonder when Tony's mouth drops open and his eyebrows knit together. It was incredible, the way Obadiah commanded the entirety of his breath, his existence. Just a little motion from his hands and Tony’s already straining to inhale, his breath growing shallow.

_ I could hold down forever _ , Obadiah thinks.  _ I could end him here _ .

Obadiah releases the pressure on Tony's neck almost as much for Tony as he does for himself. That thought — that  _ specific  _ thought almost brought him over the edge. All at once, he realizes how hard he is, how tight his pants are drawn around his hips, how the heat in his abdomen has settled low and heavy.

Tony's also hard, it’s impossible to ignore, and he struggles against Obadiah's knee, still relentlessly pressed against his ache. He gasps in air, his shaking hands finding their way back up to Obadiah's wrists before he presses down again, cutting off Tony's short reprieve.

No matter how willing the person, they'll always fight at the last second when they're afraid they'll die. Survival instinct is the most powerful force, adrenaline shaking off the haze from alcohol, and Tony begins to claw at Obadiah's arms. Obadiah doesn't know what look he has on his face, what Tony sees when his eyes open again, huge and dark and  _ wet _ . Tony sobs, he  _ sobs _ underneath Obadiah, his chest heaving, his hips shifting this way and that, fruitlessly attempting to escape from his attacker. Or maybe he’s looking for friction, looking for something more, something to push him over. Obadiah can't tell, can't seem to think properly.

"You want me to stop, Tony?" Obadiah says, too loud, too passionate. "Say it, Tony. Say it!"

He releases the pressure again, and Tony coughs, shuddering underneath Obadiah.

"But if you say stop, I'll stop forever," Obadiah continues, feeling his dick twitch. He grinds his knee against Tony, savouring the feeble whimpers he lets out, the strangled mixed sound of crying and moaning. "I'll never touch you again. That’s what you want, right?"

Tony shakes his head, more tears rolling out, drool spilling out of his mouth when he coughs again.

"No? No more?" Obadiah says, ruthless. "No  _ what _ , Tony?"

"D-don't," Tony sputters. Obadiah can see the force he puts into trying to let go of his arms, to release his desperate grip, to fight against every instinct. "Don't stop."

It’s incredible the way Tony’s pleading voice blows away any last shreds of decency in Obadiah, any pretense of good will or kindness. His mind feels as though it’s been plunged into a haze, disconnected from itself, and Obadiah can feel his fingers curling into Tony’s skin, tighter and tighter. His hands feel like a noose around Tony’s neck; his fingers, an executioner's axe. He’s getting sloppy, not just slowing the blood flow to Tony’s brain, but pressing down hard, restricting his breath. Unfortunately for Tony, Obadiah’s frankly unable to care. As long as his mouth is still so open, as long as he keeps shaking with tears underneath his grip, as long as his palpable fear is still so ever present on his face, Obadiah won’t let go.

Obadiah can feel the muscles under his hands strain as Tony desperately tries to gasp in air, hitting a complete block. His body begins to jerk underneath him, 

  
  
  
  


> obie chokes him again, tony's eyes roll back. 
> 
> obie pulls tony's pants down and fucks his thighs. tony cums but it's not obadiah's intent at all. he cums all over tony's stomach and chest, relishing the sight.
> 
> obie doesn't immediately go to clean tony up. why would he? he finishes the rest of his drink, now lukewarm, and watches tony try to get up as he adjusts himself. tony's a mess, pants around his ankles, drool running down his chin and chest, eyes glazed over. was he still drunk? did obie fuck him up with too much improperly done breathplay? was he in subspace? well, none of that mattered.
> 
> obie decides it's probably for the best if he tries to help, and so he hooks an arm around tony and helps him up to his bedroom. tony's out like a light when he hits his bed, and obie leaves him there like that.
> 
> before he goes, he leaves a note on the kitchen countertop. 
> 
> "glad i could help you, tony. any time. -OS"

**Author's Note:**

> just wanted to reiterate — this is absolutely never getting finished. (not by me, at least.)


End file.
